Chapter 2 A Guy Gotta Do What He Can To Survive

Kelvin POV

The punch snapped my head to the side, my teeth slicing into the soft tissue of my cheek. A bloody taste instantly flooded my mouth.

I didn’t have the time to stagger or cover my face, else he was going to turn on my mom, so I just stood there, planting my boots into the peeling carpet, swallowed the blood, and stared back at him.

"I said move, Kelvin," Rick growled.

He stood a few inches taller than me, his barrel-shaped chest heaving under his leather cut. The patches of his motorcycle club creaked as he rolled his shoulders, cracking his knuckles. The stench of stale beer, old engine oil, and unwashed sweat rolled off him in waves.

"I'm not moving," I said.

Behind me, my mother flinched. She was backed against the counter, her trembling hands clutching a damp dishtowel to her chest.

Ten years ago, she was a regular on the VIP lists—a gorgeous, untouchable puck bunny who chased professional hockey players and lived on expensive champagne. Now, at forty, the lifestyle had drained her. Time, bad choices, and Rick’s temper had carved out her cheekbones and put permanent terror in her eyes.

She had married him for stability when the hockey money dried up. Instead, she got a maniac.

"You think you're tough, boy?" He took a step forward, raising his grease-stained fist again. "You think you can dictate what happens in my house?"

"I think you need to back off," I told him, keeping my eyes fixed on his. If I threw a punch, it wouldn't just be Rick I’d have to deal with. It would be his club, the one which I had been forced to join.

I’d end up at the bottom of the local quarry, and my mother would be left alone with him. I had to take the hits as it was the only way to keep them off her.

From the living room sofa, a loud, exaggerated sigh broke the tension.

"God, you two are so embarrassing," Kayla muttered.

Rick’s biological daughter didn't even look up from her phone. She sat with her legs draped over the armrest, wearing a pair of designer sneakers Rick had bought her last week with cash from his chop shop. She popped a piece of gum,.the sound cracking sharply in the room.

"Can you keep the domestic trailer-trash drama down?" she asked, scrolling with a thumb. "I'm trying to watch a stream. It's bad enough I have to live with a washed-up groupie and her charity-case kid. At least let me have some peace."

My jaw tightened, the bruised bone throbbing, but I kept my mouth shut. Kayla was a spoiled, entitled brat who thrived on the power dynamic in the house.

She knew Rick would give her the world while treating my mother and me like stray dogs he kicked for sport. She loved rubbing the poverty in my face, knowing I was currently wearing a T-shirt stained with exhaust soot while she swiped a credit card I knew had my mother's name on it.

"Go to your room, Lexi," Rick barked over my shoulder.

My mother didn't argue. She slipped past me, her head down, refusing to make eye contact as she hurried out.

Once I heard her bedroom door closed, I stepped back from Rick. There was no point in lingering. The target was off her, which meant my job here was done for the night. I grabbed my jacket from the back of one of the broken

kitchen chairs.

"Where do you think you're going?" Rick demanded. "The shop needs the inventory

sorted."

"I have somewhere to be," I said, shoving my arms into the sleeves.

"You live under my roof, you eat my food, you do what I say," he sneered, stepping closer.

"I pay rent. In cash. On the first of every month," I replied, grabbing my keys off the hook by the door. "Sort your own inventory."

I didn't wait for his response. I pushed through the screen door, ignoring the way it slammed off the frame, and walked out into the humid night air.

My bike was parked on the driveway, a machine I had rebuilt from scrap parts. I threw my leg over the seat, turned the ignition, and let the engine roar to life.

As I pulled out of the driveway and hit the main road, the desperation began to claw at the back of my throat. I couldn't keep doing this. Rick was drinking more these days, and his temper was getting shorter. The hits were getting harder.

I needed cash. And fast.

Under the loose floorboards of my bedroom closet, I had a metal coffee can holding exactly four thousand, two hundred dollars. It was blood money, earned from late-night street races, pink-slip wagers, and running engines to the redline on dangerous roads.

But it wasn't enough. I needed thirty thousand for a down payment on a small house three states away. A place under a fake name where Rick could never find my mother. At the rate I was saving, it would take me another year. And I didn't think my mother had a year left in her.

I pushed the throttle down, weaving aggressively through the city traffic. Tonight was a betting night. Rich kids from the other side of town brought their expensive, daddy-funded sports cars to the underground tracks, thinking they could buy horsepower and respect. I made a living stripping them of both.

By the time I pulled into the abandoned railway yard, the air was already thick with the smell of burnt rubber, cheap weed, and high-octane exhaust.

Hundreds of people crowded the place while floodlights powered by noisy generators cut through the dust, illuminating the makeshift drag strip.

I parked my bike near a stack of rusted shipping containers, out of the main chaos. A few of the regulars nodded at me. They knew who I was. Out here, I wasn't Rick's punching bag. I was the best racer they had.

I was scanning the crowd, looking for a mark—someone arrogant, loud, and holding a fat wad of cash—when a sleek sports car rolled through the gates.

It didn't belong here. It was a European import, easily worth a quarter of a million dollars, the kind of machine that never saw dirt unless it was a mistake. The crowd and a few months naturally parted for it.

The car came to a stop near the edge of the track. The driver's side door opened first, and a girl with bright blonde hair stepped out. I recognized her vaguely—Chloe, a local rich girl who occasionally slummed it down here to get a thrill.

Then the passenger door opened.

I froze, pulling a rag from my back pocket and pretending to wipe grease from my hands as my eyes looked at her.

She wore red jean shorts and a plain white jacket, clearly trying to blend in, but she stood out like a loaded gun in a church.

I knew that face. Anyone who paid attention to a steering wheel or a throttle knew that face.

Nora Mercer.

Stellan Mercer’s daughter. The billionaire princess of the high-performance racing world. She was on the cover of Motorsport Weekly last month, hailed as the next corporate prodigy of her father's empire. She was supposed to be locked away in billion-dollar simulator labs, running laps for men in suits.

Yet here she was, standing in the dirt of an illegal street race.

I tossed the dirty rag onto my bike seat, the gears in my head shifting. Racing some suburban kid tonight might earn me a grand. It wouldn't put a dent in the thirty thousand I needed to save my mother's life.

But Nora Mercer? She had access to wealth I couldn't even comprehend.

I watched her cross her arms, looking completely isolated and frustrated as a couple of grimy locals started drifting toward her, eyeing the expensive car.

She looked like she wanted a distraction and something to ruin.

That's when the realization hit me: I didn't need to race for cash tonight. I just needed her. If I could get close to her—if I could compromise

the Mercer princess, drag her into my world, and get my hands on her—I could demand whatever number I wanted to keep it quiet.

Blackmailing a billionaire's daughter was some serious shit, but I was out of options, and my mother was running out of time.